


Identity

by notmadderred



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Comfort, Grif's A Dumbass, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 18:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18946642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmadderred/pseuds/notmadderred
Summary: Grif gave him a weird look Simmons couldn’t see because they were still wearing helmets. Eh, Simmons knew him well enough for the effect to stand. “Dude, are you okay?” He made sure to sound incredulous. Couldn’t have Simmons knowing he was actually worried. Which he wasn’t. At all.“Yes!” Simmons squeaked, which meant he was lying. Even still, the reaction was so familiar that Grif found himself relaxing a bit despite himself.“Sure, man. I totally believe you.”“Good!” Simmons cleared his throat and glanced to the side. “So, uh… we’re back at Iris.”“No shit. I fucking noticed. I can’t wait to have a pizza, though. God -- and don’t throw a fit when I finish a box! I haven’t had one in for-fucking-ever.”Simmons’ helmet tilted slightly. “Why would I throw a fit?”Was he… joking? Grif narrowed his eyes. “Um… the whole ‘those are my organs’ spiel? Which they’re not anymore. Your stomach is in my body, and that makes it mine.”A surprised, sputtering sound came from Simmons’ throat.





	Identity

**Author's Note:**

> Since this came as a Bad-Things-Happen-Bingo request but I wasn't sure quite fit the category, I decided 'fuck it' and posted it here anyway. It won't be under BTHB on Tumblr.
> 
> Also, holy shit, I have a ton of requests to go through. I'm gonna try to finish all of them, but it'll take me a bit of time. (Thankfully, a few of the requests are the same, so that'll save me a bit of time)

All in all, Grif was prepared to count today as a win. Temple was captured, and the Reds and Blues were assured that he was going to pay for his crimes. Vic -- with the help of Donut, of all people -- shut down Loco’s machine before it could do any damage, and Loco himself actually survived getting shot and was being taken in to receive treatment for cerebral hypoxia, or something like that. Locus saved Wash from getting himself fucking shot, and he and Carolina were expected to make full recoveries from their times frozen. The only real bummer was Temple’s reveal about Church. Tucker had been sticking close to Caboose’s side ever since, doing everything he could to help him feel better.

It was admittedly a bit painful to see the usually upbeat soldier so down. “Fuck,” he said. “I just wish there was something we could do to help him.”

Beside him, Simmons jumped. He’d been anxious ever since they landed on Iris -- well, more anxious than usual. “Uh-- yeah,” he said, his tone sounded almost exaggerated in sympathy. “This is… hard for. Caboose. Yeah.”

Grif gave him a weird look Simmons couldn’t see because they were still wearing helmets. Eh, Simmons knew him well enough for the effect to stand. “Dude, are you okay?” He made sure to sound incredulous. Couldn’t have Simmons knowing he was actually worried. Which he wasn’t. At all.

“Yes!” Simmons squeaked, which meant he was lying. Even still, the reaction was so familiar that Grif found himself relaxing a bit despite himself.

“Sure, man. I totally believe you.”

“Good!” Simmons cleared his throat and glanced to the side. “So, uh… we’re back at Iris.”

“No shit. I fucking noticed. I can’t wait to have a pizza, though. God -- and don’t throw a fit when I finish a box! I haven’t had one in for-fucking-ever.”

Simmons’ helmet tilted slightly. “Why would I throw a fit?”

Was he… joking? Grif narrowed his eyes. “Um… the whole ‘those are my organs’ spiel? Which they’re not anymore. Your stomach is in my body, and that makes it mine.”

A surprised, sputtering sound came from Simmons’ throat. “Right! Well, I was just-- you, uh, sort of helped save us. You know. You deserve one pizza. But that’s it! If you start eating absolute crap and destroying my stomach again, I will personally tear you a new one.”

Oh, thank fuck. That sounded like the Simmons he knew. They were always good at avoiding being thankful and showing appreciation, so Grif would take what he could get. “Yeah, sure. And you’ll stop color-coordinating your laundry.”

“It’s a legitimate system!”

“Yeah, and so is putting all your laundry in the wash at once.”

“That’s a crime punishable by death, I’m sure of it.”

Grif snorted. “Whatever, Simmons.” He started walking toward the base, sparing one last glance at Tucker and Caboose. Donut had joined them, too, now; and suddenly Caboose was cracking a smile at something the man said.

Good.

He turned back and continued. 

“Men! We need to start preparing a strategy in case the Blues attack. Grif, did you set up defenses in your time alone?”

Grif rolled his eyes and continued. “Yeah, Sarge. That’s exactly what I did in my alone time. Rig the Blue base.”

“And those defenses should work excellently, sir! We should let the Blues settle down, first, before we plan an attack. To surprise them, of course.”

“Excellent point, Simmons! I can always count on you!”

Grif could’ve sworn he heard Simmons mutter something under his breath, but he pushed it aside as Simmons jogged up to be next to Grif. “What,” Grif asked flatly.

“I, er… can’t remember where my room is.”

Grif stopped short. 

Simmons stopped immediately after, his whole body tensing. 

“You… sure you’re alright?” he repeated. Some sincerity slipped in this time around, but he couldn’t help it. “I mean-- we share a room, Simmons. It’s closest to the kitchen.”

Simmons was silent for a moment. Then, “We share a room?” he asked hesitantly.

This was officially cause for concern. “Do I need to call Dr. Grey back? We’ve always shared a room. Our whole fucking time together. This isn’t news.”

“Right. Yeah, I remember. Just messing with you, heh.” He put a hand to the back of his head. “No need for Grey.” He pulled his remaining hand into a thumbs up. As if that would make Grif feel better.

But if something really was wrong…

Fuck. He had no right to question Simmons, not since he abandoned him. Besides, even though he hadn’t obviously gone crazy from all that time alone, he… well, his judgment could perhaps use some work. He knew, objectively, talking to volleyballs was weird, so he should give Simmons a chance.

“Fine,” he said. He opened his mouth to say something snarky, but…

But he snapped it shut and walked on. Simmons followed him.

As soon as they were in the room, Grif took off his helmet. His hair was plastered to his face, and with a contrived snort, he grabbed a ponytail holder and pulled it into a bun.

Simmons was watching him.

“What,” he snapped. 

“You just look so much like B-- er, like you’re hot. Uh, sweaty. It’s gross.” 

Grif could swear Simmons was, in particular, eyeing the patch of skin that once belonged to him.

It was getting a bit awkward.

“Yeah, well my cooling unit broke years ago, remember? Not my fault I get hot.” He began to take off his armor, revealing the sweat-stained civvies underneath.

Simmons looked away, examining the room. His gaze settled on a small photograph on the bedside of everyone out of armor. Probably the best picture they’d gotten of them altogether.

His side was tidy as ever. Grif made sure he didn't touch anything that belonged to the other man while he was gone. In fact, he didn't go into the room at all. 

By the time he’d gotten the rest of his power armor off and thrown it in the corner of the room, Simmons hadn’t done a thing. “Jesus,” he said. “No one’s gonna come here and kill us. You can take off your--”

“No,” Simmons snapped, too quickly, too harsh. 

Grif couldn’t help but take a startled half step back. “Okay,” he said, slowly. “You do you, man. I’m gonna raid the kitchen.”

Simmons didn't bother replying as Grif scurried out, shutting the door behind him.

Okay.

Something was up.

He still bustled to the kitchen. It was rarely empty, being sort of a neutral territory for the Reds and Blues.

Sure enough, both Carolina and Wash were there.

Wash’s head was buried in his arms and he was muttering something about grapefruit.

Carolina was eyeing him, apparently unimpressed, as she drank from a glass of orange juice.

Her eyes flitted to Grif.

She lifted a brow. “What’s wrong?”

Oh, fuck. Was it that obvious? 

“Okay,” he said, “hear me out: something’s wrong with Simmons.”

“Aw, Simmons,” Wash said, lifting his head and giving Grif a goofy smile. “What a nice guy. Where’d he end up?”

Grif blinked. “Is he still--”

“Yes,” said Carolina. “And what do you mean by ‘wrong?’”

“I mean that he isn’t remembering stuff he should, and he keeps saying weird shit, and he just finished snapping at me for commenting on how he was still in armor and I swear he even sounds a little different and he’s walking with a small limp like his cybernetic leg is injured which is weird right? and he just keeps being surprised by things he shouldn’t be surprised about and--”

“Grif.” Carolina lifted the palm of her hand of the table to turn it toward him. “Are you sure it’s Simmons who’s acting weird?”

He blinked. What? What was that supposed to mean?

“You were by yourself for days. Isolation is a form of torture for a reason. It may have gotten to your head and--”

“Nevermind,” he said. It came out angrier than he intended, but she didn't look mad about his outburst. If anything, she looked… like she felt pity for him. He felt heat rise to his cheeks. “It’s probably nothing.” And it probably was. Fuck. He was an idiot. And now he had Carolina feeling sorry for him and she may end up trying to find out about what happened to him on Iris when they were gone and _fuck._ “I’m just gonna--”

He turned to walk away 

And nearly ran right into Simmons.

Who was out of armor.

Simmons stopped him from colliding by grabbing Grif’s shoulders and steadying him. He was wearing a maroon, long-sleeved shirt and gloves. In fact, no skin -- or cybernetic parts -- outside of his face were showing.

Something was off with that face. The metal looked too crisp, settling too neatly along his cheekbone and forehead as though it’d been placed on top of his real face rather than having replaced it. And the cybernetic eye looked even more realistic than before, red iris aside.

His expression was unreadable beyond mild surprise at the near-collision.

Grif was going to be sick.

“Watch it,” said Simmons.

Grif ran out of the kitchen.

“Bye, Mr. Sandman!” Wash called after him.

 

\----

 

It wasn’t fucking Simmons.

Grif knew Simmons.

Grif was familiar with every goddamn freckle on Simmons’ face, every goddamn strand of hair on Simmon’s head, every goddamn inflection in his tone.

It wasn’t him.

Grif knew Simmons.

Grif cared about Simmons. A lot. Like, _a lot_ a lot.

So he knew this wasn’t Simmons.

He got the impression everyone else disagreed, ever since he brought up his odd behavior with Carolina earlier.

Well, everyone except Caboose, but Caboose was impressionable. Grif knew this because, once he decided this Simmons wasn’t Simmons Simmons, he’d sat down next to Caboose on the sofa, pointed at not-Simmons, and whispered, “That’s not Simmons.”

Caboose nodded. “Okay. Yes.”

Caboose hadn’t brought it up since. Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe he didn't care -- he’d been pretty quiet and kept to himself a bit more often these days, so Grif’s concerns probably weren’t also Caboose’s Concerns.

Either way, this meant he had to prove that this wasn’t really Simmons.

This was only day two back on Iris, so this not-Simmons character could easily chalk up Grif’s waspishness toward him as “just settling back in.”

So, theoretically, his plan could totally work. He could apologize in front of everyone, then prove this wasn’t Simmons, also in front of everyone.

And then they’d believe him.

Right?

Right.

Foolproof. No holes in that plan at all.

Thankfully, Tucker had planned a movie night for today, and everyone was invited.

Everyone was coming.

Everyone would be there.

See? Foolproof.

Grif was the last one in the lounge area, where Tucker was still trying to put the movie in with no small amount of cursing. “Why-- the _fuck_ \-- can’t this fucking thing-- work without a hitch-- _one. Fucking. Time._ ”

Simmons was standing next to the shuttered windows, arms crossed and eyes studying Tucker’s attempts with what may have been amusement. But not normal amusement. _Mocking_ amusement.

Okay, maybe Grif was being a tad dramatic.

His gut twisted, and he took a deep breath. He could do this.

“Uh, hey, Simmons,” he said from across the way.

Everyone looked at him with some degree of interest, except Tucker.

Simmons’ eyes narrowed. “Hey, Grif,” he said, his tone cautious.

Grif stepped over to him, Simmons watching every step.

Grif rubbed the back of his neck once he was standing in front of him. “I just, uh, wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Tucker looked then, abandoning his attempts to fit the disk in. Grif apologizing? Crazy stuff. He’d done it when everyone was captured, but this was different.

Simmons pursed his lips and shifted his footing, momentarily glancing over to everyone else and taking their stares into account. “Okay?” he said drawing out the syllable suspiciously. It sounded like it’d been carefully crafted, made to fit the environment.

Even Sarge was quiet. Fuck.

Grif nodded. He needed to do this. For Simmons. The real one. Not this one. “I’ve, uh, been kinda distant lately, and that isn’t fair to you. I’m the one who left you, after all.”

Everyone else was sharing confused glances.

Simmons swallowed. “Uh, okay. I forgive you.”

Okay. He could totally do this. He grabbed Simmons’ hand. Simmons tensed briefly but didn't pull away. He didn't know that he should. He didn't know the nature of Grif and Real-Simmons’ relationship.

After all, they were the only ones to share a room. And wasn’t that something?

“Thanks, babe,” he said, and leaned forward onto his toes to reach up to Simmons’ lips and give him a kiss.

Again, for a flash, Simmons tensed. 

Then he kissed him back, only for a second.

When he pulled back, he was wearing a soft smile. “Always,” he said.

“What the _fuck_?” Tucker squawked, now doing a weird sumo-squat with both his hands on his head as he looked at the pair, still holding hands. “You two have been dating _this whole time?_ ”

Everyone else was looking at Tucker, some of them nodding along with him.

Grif shrugged. “Nope. Never held hands with Simmons, never called him babe, never kissed him in my life.”

Not-Simmons stiffened.

Tucker blinked, still frozen in that ridiculous pose. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Oh, that’s not Simmons,” said Caboose.

Everyone turned to Caboose.

“That is Gene,” Caboose continued.

Huh? Who the fuck was--

Holy shit. He’d forgotten that the Reds and Blues basically had fucking carbon copies. This had to be Simmons’.

Wait, had Caboose known even before Grif told him?

Simmons-- Gene-- started to pull his hand away. “I-- I don’t know what--”

Grif didn't hesitate.

He punched Gene in the face.

The faux cybernetic piece came off.

All hell immediately broke loose.

 

“You know,” said Simmons the second Grif and Tucker arrived at Temple’s former base (with Wash babysitting Caboose back at Iris, now that he’d finally “sobered up”), “I was wondering how long it’d take you to notice I was gone.”

There was an untouched plate of fish next to him.

Grif tried not to look at it.

Simmons pushed it toward him an inch.

He still ignored it.

“So you’ve just been waiting here?” asked Tucker, incredulous, as Simmons pursed his lips and tried to hide a concerned look. “What happened?”

Simmons shrugged. “Gene locked me in the basement when everyone got separated. By the time I picked the lock, everyone else was gone.”

“You know how to pick locks?” Grif blurted.

Simmons shrugged again, now eyeing his feet from where he sat. “I couldn’t contact you guys. Did… did Gene replace me?”

Grif heard the fear in his voice. _Am I replaceable?_

He crossed his arms. “Don’t worry, Simms. I noticed immediately. I just had to pro-- ah. Um. He tried. He failed.”

Tucker snorted. “You two are so alike. Grif and Caboose were the only ones who knew right from the start.”

“Oh.” Simmons shifted in his spot, stretching out one leg. One _long_ leg. “Uh, how?” He looked up suddenly, a bit aggressive. “He was too much of an asshole, wasn’t he! God, he was so annoying. And such a nerd! Like, who would even--”

“Simmons, I hate to break it to you, but you’re also an asshole, a nerd, and super-fucking annoying.”

Simmons’ face turned red and he glared. “Whatever, Grif.”

Grif finally sat down, bumping Simmons’ shoulder once with his own. “Yeah, he gave himself away because he wasn’t annoying enough.”

Simmons snorted and rolled his eyes. “Love you too, Grif.”

He said it sarcastically, but Grif still felt the heat rush to his cheeks. One of the downsides toward having Simmons’ skin: he couldn’t hide his blushes anymore.

Then Tucker’s mouth stretched into a slow smirk.

Grif frowned. “Wait, Tuck--”

“You wanna know how he proved to everyone it was Gene and not you?”

Grif put his hands into a T-shape, “Now, hold on--”

Simmons pursed his lips. “Well, Gene wasn’t a cyborg, right? So did he just take off the fake stuff Gene probably used?”

“Tucker ple--”

“Yeah, he punched that shit right off Gene’s face--”

Simmons smiled proudly--

“-- _after_ he kissed him.”

The smile dropped. “He did what.”

“I-- it was a legitimate strategy!” Grif cried. Oh, fuck. In his desperation, he was starting to sound like Simmons At the baffled look Simmons gave him, he felt the blush spread to his ears. “Really!”

“How did that pro-- oh.” Then Simmons was blushing. “Oh, uh, right. Because he would assume that we’ve been dating when you kissed him, so he kissed back and pretended it was normal. And since we’re, uh, obviouslynotdating, everyone would, um, know. That wasn’t me.”

Tucker snorted. “Actually, we sorta assumed that you two had been dating and just hadn’t said anything.”

“What?” Simmons squeaked, tucking the outstretched leg back into his chest. “We aren’t! We wouldn’t! We haven’t! Eat the fucking fish, Dex!”

“ _What_ did you just call me?” Grif asked, his voice pitching high.

“I mean Grif! I’ve been alone for two days! These things happen! Fuck!”

Tucker laughed, and Grif decided that, yeah, maybe he should stress-eat the fish.

It was gone within seconds, and Tucker started to bend over with the force of his laughter.

“What?” Grif accused, his mouth still full.

“Jesus, you two!” He leaned back up, looking between them with an amused grin. Grif finally realized just how close they were, touching from shoulder to leg. 

Simmons’ neck flushed bright red as he seemed to notice the same thing. It’d just been so natural -- Grif hadn’t even realized that he’d done it.

Neither moved.

“What!” Grif repeated.

Tucker clapped his hands together and steepled them under his chin. “Grif. Simmons. Grif-Simmons.”

Simmons glared. “Fuck off, Tucker.”

Tucker ignored him. “There’s a reason we thought you two could be dating. For example,” and then he gesticulated toward them with one arm.

“We’re friends!” said Simmons. “And I just haven’t seen him in a really long time! And I missed--” 

He clamped his mouth shut.

Tucker eyeballed them.

Ah, dammit. Now Simmons looked embarrassed and a bit ashamed. Fuck, he thought Grif wouldn’t have missed him-- _hadn’t_ missed him.

Grif sighed. “I… missed you, too… or whatever.”

He became very interested in his hands.

In his peripherals, he saw Tucker throw up his hands, turn around, and begin walking back to the ship.

Simmons looked at him from the corner of his eye. “I think that was the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other since we first met.”

Grif huffed. “Yeah. I think you’re right. Plus, I was stuck with _Gene_. He’s been arrested, now, so no worries.”

Simmons hummed. “For the best, really. He thought the _Star Wars_ prequels were better than the originals.”

Grif scoffed and turned to face him full-on. Simmons had a small smile, the one where only half of his lips were quirked up after he knew he’d said something Grif could totally use to make fun of him. With Grif turned, Simmons was now hunched over a bit, peering up at him with slightly hooded eyes.

“Maybe Gene was onto something,” Grif offered.

Simmons threw his head back and laughed, full and bubbly in a way that made Grif’s heart stop. “Shut up,” he said, elbowing him softly.

Grif crossed his arms and tilted his head smugly. “Make me.”

Simmons straightened at the challenge, gaze turning hard and determined. Then he reached up with his hand, grabbed Grif’s jaw, leaned in, and kissed him.

Almost ironically, his lips tasted a bit like metal.

Grif leaned into the contact -- the feeling just as natural as sitting next to Simmons, next to his best friend -- and vaguely hoped he didn't taste too much like fish.

Simmons was the first to pull back, which was for the best because Grif wasn’t entirely sure if he ever would. His cheeks were flushed, and he still had that determined look in his eyes.

“Well,” said Grif, after he’d finally found the ability to use his words again, “you certainly do _that_ better than Gene.”

Simmons actually smirked at that. Ah, fuck. Grif shouldn’t have complimented him. “Great. So now I know how to shut you up more often.”

“Puh-lease,” Grif retorted, already knowing he’d lost this argument, “it would take more than that to--”

 

Some arguments really were worth losing.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Prompt:** For the Bad Things Happen Bingo. Could you do “Came Back Different” where Grif accidentally brings Gene back to Iris instead of Simmons? I love your fics so much and I just think that’d be super cool
> 
>  
> 
> Send me an ask [here](https://not-madder-red.tumblr.com/ask) if you want to request a work to fill out my Bingo card (as specific or general as you want). Current version of my Bingo card can be found [here](https://not-madder-red.tumblr.com/post/185159385876/carolina-and-simmons-discuss-about-childhood)


End file.
